Shadows of Obsession
by SplendidIsolation
Summary: After the death of first love Harry, a distraught Ginny married Draco. But the dark secret he hides threatens to disturb the past and change her future for ever…Can she forgive his betrayal or will she risk everything to discover the truth? DGHG.Angstloss
1. A Very Draco Beginning

**Shadows of Obsession **

I never believed that I was capable of love. I used to think myself too empty and cold; the thought of belonging to another person, from soul to bone, terrified me in a way I would never admit. My childhood was not nurturing to say the least, I had no urge to hug or be hugged. In fact I hated to be touched, the notion of another person tainting my skin left be sickened. During the latter years at Hogwarts however, my strange ways changed dramatically. I began to sleep around – I had sex and plenty of it. But with each conquest love was decidedly absent. Every time was simply a meeting of the flesh, a harsh joining between body and body – the girls didn't have names to me, why would they need them? Once I had satisfied my need I disregarded them quickly enough. Looking back I'm not proud of myself but at the time the thought that I might be hurting my 'lovers' never once concerned me. I enjoyed the power, the feeling of control as I possessed their bodies and minds, leaving them whimpering for more.

This behaviour continued for nearly two years until one day, a glimpse, just a tiny glimpse of a person, caused my life to shatter around me. I saw her striding from the quidditch pitch with her broomstick dragging on the floor. She was muttering angry curses under her breath and roughly pushing back her wild, tangled hair which the wind had caused to fly in her face. Red patches coloured her rounded cheeks and her lips were pale from the cold. I couldn't stop staring at those lips. Why the sight of a muddy, very tired looking girl caused such a reaction in me, I don't know. All I knew was that this girl had a name… my god, what a name!

So began my love for Ginny Weasley. Yes, I knew it was love, although my life had thus far been void of it, somehow I recognised the feeling as soon as it settled in my stomach. It was heavy and horrible; it was painful and wonderful. My loathing of the Weasley family paled to insignificance as I watched Ginny doing her everyday things. I lamented myself for not noticing her sooner – I grieved for the lost days when my eyes could have been her silent shadow. My meaningless encounters with nameless shells ceased as I could no longer concentrate on anything but her. Nobody ever noticed how my gaze would remain slyly fixed on the Gryffindor table. She never noticed…

Several months of muted longing persisted until one day I found the courage to begin my slow seduction. I knew where my powers lay; I knew that my body, honed to perfection, could be a deadly tool. At first she resisted, showed all that redheaded, charmingly untamed temper which I so enjoyed. But soon enough, our lips joined in a way which surpassed even my most vivid dreams. We gradually grew closer and finally she announced to the whole school that we were an item. My brave, brave girl… The looks on each face were priceless, some were shocked, some were jealous but most carried a look of disgust. I loved it. The best part was seeing her brother turn a multitude of colours, firstly ghostly pale as his mouth lay agape in shock, and then pink and finally a horrible shade of fuming red. Now that was funny! Not so much when his fists came flailing towards me but his expression as Ginny stood in my defence was beyond hilarious. All in all it was turning out to be a very good day that was until I caught a secret look passed between Ginny and Harry Potter. Of course I had noticed a…connection between the pair but denial can go a long way and soon I forgot that Ginny had loved the same boy for nearly seven years. I chose to ignore the times when they would share a joke and Ginny's face would light up in a way I rarely saw. I averted my eyes away at the times when Harry's hand would 'accidentally' brush hers. The mix of anger and longing I would see when her eyes misted over at him was always forcefully wiped from my memory. But it was becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore the signs. When she announced our relationship she spoke directly to him, spoke each shocking word as if he was the only person in the world. Watching his face pale, fists grind and heart visibly break didn't make me laugh. It made me sick.

In that instance I knew the time for pretence was over. I truly believed that she felt something for me, it may not have been love but it was something, something real… For several weeks we carried on as normal, I didn't tell her what I knew and I could see that she was trying her best to forget him and take comfort in my embrace. But my Gryffindor was far too noble for permanent deceit. Several short days later she came to me with a sober face and spoke in a quiet, apologetic voice. "I'm using you Draco and it's killing me". I was angry, of course I was. I shouted at her as expected but my heart really wasn't in it. I had already decided long ago that she would be mine and I viewed a short break while she got Potter out of her system, a requirement I was willing to make. I truly believed that we belonged together.

Even when I saw her, hand in hand with Potter a month later, I believed that it would be me who fathered her children and grew old by her side. I still believed in the last few weeks at Hogwarts when they seemed welded together, an invisible link preventing them from ever being apart. They were the wonder couple; the boy hero and his redheaded lover. They existed in an impenetrable bubble of oblivious happiness – lost to the world. Yet my faith remained strong. It wasn't until they announced their engagement on the last day of term that a chink dented my armour of conviction. It was ludicrous! Marriage age seventeen! But still I kept calm. I even offered my 'congratulations' as forced and insincere as they were. For I knew that a force far greater than I was fast approaching…war…

Although I had long been suspected of being a death eater in training – the truth was far less exciting. My father did not deem me worthy of following his 'great and powerful master' (his words not mine) he believed me to be weak and too soft – perhaps I was. Either way I had no incentive to throw my life away for such a cause. I may have once given the impression of being my father's lapdog – snarling obediently at nasty mudbloods like a good boy but those times were far in the past. I cared for only one person besides myself. The affairs of the witching community, as serious as they were, mattered little to me. My father, his voice heavy with disappointment, ordered me to maintain the Malfoy estate and manage all the trivial affairs – which as a loyal servant on Voldemort – were far beneath him. This position suited me perfectly. I largely stayed out of the nasty war incidents which occurred on a daily basis.

Once again I resumed my position as her silent companion. I watched her, followed her and from the shadows, offered her all the protection in my power. Many times I killed the creatures that stalked her – I didn't think of it as murder. For Ginny Weasley I would have done anything.

For over two months, I watched as Harry Potter and his cronies fought valiantly against Voldemort. My Ginny and Potter were still together, and as much as it pains me to admit it, their love was stronger than ever. They had that kind of desperate clinging and all-consuming passion that I longed to experience once more.

When my father was announced dead I felt relieved and only the slightest twinge of guilt. Obviously I wasn't surprised – my wand had a good aim…

The side of good was slowly winning and soon it became clear that Voldemort's power was waning. The whole witching community had tentatively begun celebrating; foolishly believing that the worst was over. Idiots. On one particularly cold morning in winter Harry Potter and Voldemort faced their final fight. Potter had taken off alone, unwilling to put those he loved in danger – ever the noble hero…

He had done what everybody had expected and defeated the big bad. But nobody had truly believed he would die too. His body was found by his best friends. The distraught crying of Hermione Granger had echoed eerily loud. It gave me a headache.

The funeral was outlandishly over the top. Hordes of people had walked behind the coffin, tears streaming down their ghostly faces. Most had never even met him. The sight of Ginny, broken and empty, in a mass of black did dull the sense of triumph but not enough to strip the secret smile from my face. The obstacle that had been Harry Potter had now disappeared. Nothing stood in my way.

I knew that Ginny liked a slice of Hero in a man so to fulfil this requirement I single-handily killed the leftover death eaters who had begun terrorising muggles. It was simple enough. I lured them back to the Manor under the pretence of knowing a secret my dear old dad had bestowed to me. They triggered a particularly complex curse as soon as they stepped over the threshold. Burned them to a crisp. Ruined the carpet completely but it was worth it.

Gaining her love was much harder. She was completely heartbroken by his death. At times I don't believe her vacant, beautiful eyes saw me at all. Initially I became Draco the friend. Draco who understood and cared. Draco who offered a shoulder to cry on. Draco who stood there while she screamed and raged and wept. I was Draco the liar.

After a year or so things gradually begun to change. When I reached for her hand she no longer pushed me away. When my eyes remained entranced with hers, she no longer blinked and looked elsewhere. It was all progressing nicely. Finally she kissed me, yes, _she _kissed _me!_ I knew deep down that she wasn't over Potter but I didn't care. Not one bit. Her soft lips were on mine and nothing in the whole world mattered. Another two months passed before I asked her to marry me. She paused for what seemed like a life age and then one word came out of her mouth, one soft, impossibly perfect word. Yes.

That was fifteen months ago. Today was our one year wedding anniversary. I believe congratulations are in order. I will be the father of her children. I will grow old by her side.

Nothing will stop that. Nothing will prevent our happiness. She is mine and will be forever.

That's why I won't ever tell her that Potter is very much alive.

That's why I won't ever tell her I know exactly where he is…

Not ever.


	2. A Start from Ginny

**Shadows of Obsession **

**A Start from Ginny**

One year. Twelve months. Fifty-two weeks. I keep saying the numbers over and over in my head – a continuous cycle of days. So many days have passed since I first uttered 'I do". It feels like I should be celebrating my tenth not my first anniversary.

I have the perfect life. I truly do. My house, or should I say mansion, brings a whole new meaning to the word 'grand'. For someone who grew up in a ram-shackled home that looked like it would collapse with the slightest wind, it's like living in a pure fantasy. My room is full of pretty little trinkets and jewels of every possible colour sit idle and unworn on my dressing table. I'm rich…I have more money that I could possibly ever spend. I can afford to buy the finest of clothes and the most expensive, pointless objects imaginable. And to top it all I have a husband who loves me. He is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen and conjures in me the strangest feeling I have ever known. He is Draco. He is my saviour and my lover. He is my best and only friend.

Without him I would never have recovered. After…it…happened I was beyond broken. I could feel my insides slicing against each other like shards of the sharpest glass whenever _his_ name was mentioned. The pain, the real, actual pain was so intense that I felt like vomiting and crying and screaming all at the same time. I used to wake up in the morning only to count down the hours until I could return to my bed. Every instinct within me yelled at me to remain strong and to heal but I no longer cared enough to listen. I had lost the one thing in the world that truly mattered and nothing, nothing, could take away the hurt.

At first I hated the sight of Draco. I loathed the fact that I had once used him in order to hurt someone else. I hated how he could see into me and understand in a way no other living person could. So I pushed him away. At that stage I had felt drained and utterly empty but I still had the tiniest spark of fire left in me and I used it to rid myself of him. But no matter how much I protested he kept coming back. His perfect face remained impassive as I finally let loose and pounded my fists into his chest with as much strength as I could muster. "Why? Why?" I can remember half-shouting, half-crying over and over again. "Why did he have to go!" Draco could offer me no answers but I didn't care. The questions and accusations which had been suffocating inside of me were finally free and as guilty as it made me feel after, I couldn't deny that I felt better.

Months past and every day seemed to be just a little brighter than the one before. The pain never went but I became much better at hiding it. Much to the dismay of my brothers, Draco became my closet and most trusted friend. I never went far without him and in truth his presence became addictive. It offered something I desperately needed – a distraction. I constantly had to remind my family that Draco was a good man, something he had more than proved by destroying the last of the death eaters. It felt good to have him at my side. He was the only friend I had who wasn't deeply involved with the war. Talking to Hermione and Ron was growing more and more difficult. They were the only two people who came close to knowing what I felt and I hated them for it. They were a reminder, a horribly raw reminder of what I had lost. So the distant between us increased and soon after my visits to the Burrow and my family became less and less frequent.

My time was spent with Draco at the Manor. At first I had hated the foreboding and gothic beauty of his house but soon enough the darkness of it appealed to me. It became a home to me. The whole world had shrunk into two people – Draco and I. A Weasley and a Malfoy. Impossible but true. Months dragged by until at last I felt close to whole again. Although I hadn't spoken to my family or friends in over twelve weeks I felt calm and almost content – something I knew was a direct response of being with Draco. For some reason, on no special day, I kissed him. Up until this day, I still don't know what possessed me to take such bold action. I guess I wanted to see if he truly was a cure and if the pain would miraculously disappear when my lips tentatively touched his. It didn't disappear…

For the next eight weeks we took baby steps into becoming a real couple. I knew instinctively that it was the wrong answer to my problems but at the time it seemed a great deal easier than searching for the right one. I allowed myself to be transported back to my sixth year when for a short amount of weeks Draco was my lover. Although still numb, my heart raced every time I looked at him. He was beyond handsome, beyond beautiful. His pale features seemed almost too perfect and the hair, which swept over his shoulders, too white to be natural. But it was. He was real, he was alive and he wanted me. It came as no surprise when he bended down on one knee and proposed. The silence which stretched out after he finished his last word '…wife?" was truly bizarre. I felt the reply leave my mouth without any thought behind it. As it struck heavy in the air, my own bemused laughter filled my head. I looked down at Draco as if I was floating on another plane in a different reality. In my reality the head of hair should be black and the eyes looking expectantly up at me should have been as green as a pickled toad…

But no, they were grey, grey, grey…it made no sense but I had said 'yes' so it must be true…I was getting married…

So here I am hiding in our bedroom. I had to escape the insufferable conversations of the party guests. Draco's friends of course, I have none of my own anymore. Ron had declared the day before my wedding that he never wanted to see me again. I was a betrayer to the memory of his best friend. I was no longer his sister. I was Malfoy's whore.

"Here you are darling." Draco now says opening the door with a sly smile. "Finding refuge from the rich and senseless, can't say I blame you."

I let out a knowing sigh and lay back on the bed gesturing for my husband to join me.

"Draco, why did we invite such people? It's our anniversary, not half of the wizarding community's Friday night out."

Draco takes a strand of my hair and twirls it playfully around his fingers. "You know why Ginny. I have appearances to maintain. I hate the idiots as much as you trust me. But sometimes a little make-believe goes a long way." Draco says in a soft voice which sends shivers down my spine. I move closer towards him, enjoying the safety of his embrace.

At times like these I can almost forget about the war and…_him_. I can forget how lonely I am without my friends and family. I can forget that a part of me still remains horribly, unbearably empty. I sometimes get the strangest feeling of anticipation - like I'm waiting for something to happen but I just can't think what.

As I trail my fingers through his long, silky hair I tell myself that I'm happy. I have everything. Everything I never had. His hand curls around my stomach. He doesn't know that a small life is already growing inside me. I'll tell him soon, he's always wanted to be a father.

I'm Mrs Malfoy. I'm Mrs Malfoy I repeat again and again. I'm happy. I'm loved.

So why do I feel this way?


	3. A Break in the Bone

**A Break in the Bone**

**Draco**

Deception is a relative term. To some it is merely a white lie – a harmless little untruth soon forgotten. To others it is a heady, dangerous poison that burns the tongue from which it is spat out. To me it is more like a skeleton – a beautiful, living structure, which holds everything together. Each bone needs to be perfectly crafted to fits its specific purpose. Something like 'Oh I can't possibly come to work today, I'm ever so **cough** sick" would be a finger bone, a small, unobtrusive lie never thought about. The secret I hold is far, far greater – it is the spine; the one part of the structure which can shatter the skeleton from the tiniest imperfection. This morning I found that imperfection. This morning I found a break in the bone.

The day began as any other. I woke with my arm curled around my beautiful wife. "One year, one day." I said softly recalling our wedding anniversary. I ignored the shiver that ran through her sleeping body and reminded myself how fortunate I am – how clever I have been. As I do every morning, I left a trail of butterfly kisses on my Ginny's bare shoulders and twisted a lock of fire round my finger. "I wish I could stay here forever" I whispered idly "Just us and this bed. Could anything be more perfect?"

"Nothing Draco, not a single thing." I imagined her saying. If awake those words would have probably left her lips.

I sighed with content and with one final touch of my hand to her porcelain skin, I left the bed and lazily dressed for work. I scoff as I'm writing this, as 'work' couldn't be further from the truth. I have no job or at least not one in the typical sense. You see I am a celebrity. A hired hero now that the 'real' one is otherwise engaged. Normally being second best is a position I resent but the perks of the position far outweigh any lingering complex. After my 'stunning and incredibly heroic' (the Daily Prophet's words) defeat of the last Death Eaters I have become Draco the Brave, any past link with the Dark Side of the force long forgotten. It is strange how conveniently people can turn murder into a selfless act. I presume it offers them some kind of comfort and makes it acceptable, no, essential that they praise me for ending the life of a person. Actually twelve people. They give me medals and take my photograph and shake my hand and all for completing incredible, excruciating mass murder. The press works in mysterious ways…

I put on my expensive black robes and peered in the mirror. You handsome bugger! I said smugly and combed through my shoulder length hair. It really is too long but Ginny likes it and what Ginny likes, Ginny gets.

"Er… pardon me sir but…but" I looked down at my quivering house elf Jarvis. His large ears were shaking and I found myself wondering if he would suddenly take flight. Hs huge nose has an indecently large red wart perched precariously on the edge and every time I see it the desire to accio my darts set is almost overpowering.

"What is it?" I said shortly.

"A-A letter has appeared in your study sir…a very special letter." Jarvis replied hastily. Probably more fan mail ('oh Mr. Malfoy you are just soooo dreamy, I know you're married but I really think I'm your dream woman, I know I'm lumpy in places and my teeth have run away but we can make it work…')

I rolled my eyes and said impatiently "Well bring it here. Whose owl delivered it?"

"That's the strange thing," it said with wide eyes "It just appeared from thin air. I was cleaning in there and…" he stopped and suddenly banged his head against the wall. "Bad, bad Jarvis! Sir says I must stay out of study but I forgot! Stupid, bad Jarvis!"

Normally I would punish the little bastard for sneaking around but my curiosity had been piqued.

"Stop it!" I grabbed him by the ears and held him steady. "Why didn't you bring it up?"

"I couldn't sir. Jarvis tried but the letter kept flying away and screeching 'For Malfoy's eyes only!' over and over again." He looked at me with that stupid, ugly face and asked quietly "You are not mad at Jarvis? He tried but no, no, only for you is the letter meant."

"I'm not mad. I flatly responded and sent him from the room. Servants are a waste of oxygen – bring back the guillotine.

I walked down to the study and found the heavy oak door open. I briefly wondered how the elf could have gotten past my many security spells but the sight of the small white envelope hovering over my desk, drew me forward. Puzzled, I reached my hand forward and the letter rushed towards it, gluing itself to my palm. On the front there is no address only a name, one word 'Malfoy'. Without hesitation I opened it and a single piece of white paper danced to the floor. I picked it up and as my eyes registered the words sprawled in black ink, the beating of my heart increased tenfold.

It can only mean one thing. Impossibly, horribly it can mean just one thing. The bone is breaking.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID

I have a visit to make. I need to talk to Harry's keeper.

1

1

1

GINNY 

I am supposed to glow. They say that pregnant women have an aura of natural beauty. I don't. I feel wretched and ugly and for the last twenty minutes my head has been down a toilet. This is the first day of morning sickness and to my absolute disgust it is far from being the last. At least Draco had left for work by the time my stomach held a full-scale bid for freedom. I don't think I could handle him seeing me like this – not so pathetic and dare I say it, normal. Ever since he has truly known me I have been part of something extraordinary. I was a fringe member of the infamous trio, I was part of the Order, I fought in the war alongside my brothers and friends and I was in love with…

But now I'm just a housewife, an expectant mother, which I know is a big deal in itself but it's just not enough. When I was younger I was going to take over the world – I was going to be Ginny medi-witch extraordinaire or Weasley the best Auror in Britain or even Professor Weasley headmistress of Hogwarts. But now I'm just a wife, just a title. I know jealousy is petty but I just can't help feeling a painful stab whenever I think of the success of my brothers. Bill the curse breaker, Charlie the dragon keeper, Percy the high flying ministry worker, Fred and George the unlikely entrepreneurs and then there's Ron – how did my stupid brother who's afraid of spiders (tiny spiders for Christ's sake!) become one of the most bravest and well respected wizards in modern history? I can't even think about Hermione, if I do then I might just turn green with envy.

I try to swallow these thoughts and crawl back into bed. Urghh…at the moment I personify that noise. I curl up under the covers and press my hands over my still-flat stomach.

A noise. My body goes stiff and cold. There's someone in the room and it's not Draco. Shit. Shit. Shit. I'm going to be murdered in my bed. I'm going to die alone and in a…vomit stained nightdress. Fantastic.

Following my instincts I pull down the covers and sit up straight and alert on the bed.

Better to go down with a fight.

"Who the hell are you?" I ask, regretting how ridiculous my shaking voice sounds. Why can't I be all menacing and scare him off with my angry glare? Oh yeah, I'm bloody petrified!

The shadows move and I can now see the intruder. He is tall…moves closer…he is good-looking…steps forward…with thick black hair…and…no, no it can't be…my heart drops like an anvil…it isn't.

"Blaise Zabini?" I state incredulously

"Hello Mrs. Malfoy. How are we today?"

For the first but not the last time I am left speechless. Blaise formerly known as the creepy-scare-the-crap-out-of-me-shadow appears completely relaxed and stares at me like I'm the insane intruder in his calm world.

"What are you doing here?" I ask the obvious question with my face still set in shock. The fact that there is a handsome man in my bedroom who is not my husband might excite me after ten years of marriage but not now – not when I'm half-naked and covered in something sticky and impossibly orange.

"I came to see you. he replies nonchalantly and moves to perch on the edge of my bed. I quickly inch back and pull the covers up to my neck. I can't get my head around the blip in my usual routine of normalcy. Everything in my life for the last year has been uber normal but now someone I haven't seen for years is checking his watch for the time and is looking thoroughly bored. Bored? How could I possibly be boring him? He lets out an impatient huff as if to say 'Are you always this slow? Shouldn't you be offering me a cup of tea by now?'

"Why? Become a cat burglar? Going to liberate the family jewels and use the money for a much needed haircut?" I want to reply coolly and confidently but in reality all my heavy tongue can muster is a slurred "…w-why?"

He smoothly uncrosses his legs and stretches them out. He offers a patronising smile and responds, "I have something important to give you."

I look closely at him. His eyes, now surveying me mockingly, are gold and flecked with flashes of vivid orange. The curved lips are thin and I can imagine how severe they would appear when he's angry. He registers my prolonged stare with a knowing nod, as if to say 'Yes I know I'm incredibly sexy, feel free to drool'.

"Why in my bedroom? What's so important?" I demand, thankful that my shock is now turning to anger. A very useful emotion.

He eyes me suggestively and answers slyly "I have to get my thrills somewhere don't I?"

"_Excuse me_?"

"Oh don't fret I'm not in a pillaging mood." He says rolling his eyes "Plus the bed hair and vomit look really doesn't work for me – I'm picky like that."

A traitorous blush creeps across my cheeks and I spit out "Answer the damn question!"

"Actually" he retorts, "there were two questions. Didn't they teach you maths at Hogwarts?"

Before I can think of a witty comeback, he grows suddenly serious and moves further up the bed.

"Open your hand." he orders quietly as he reaches into his trouser pocket.

For some reason I listen to him and in an instance a little weight is felt. I draw back my outstretched hand and look at the object.

I swear the world stops spinning. Time stills. My eyes close without me knowing. I can hear the blood streaming through my veins. The room shrinks and I am lost in the same dark place I had desperately clawed myself up from so long ago.

Dangling between my thumb and index finger is a plain silver chain. On the chain is a simple silver ring. It was an engagement ring. It was a promise made between two people. The promise was to be true and loving every day for eternity. That promise was broken.

"Oh God…" I mutter, unable to form other words "Oh God…"

"It was never found." Blaise begins, saying the sentences I should but can't say. "Harry Potter never took that off. It hung around his neck like a lifeline – a pendant of solace. You've always wondered what happened to it, haven't you?" he asks and with my numb nod continues "Perhaps you assumed it lost in the final battle? That it flew from its owner and was buried by rubble? Or maybe you thought Voldemort had taken it just before saying those lethal last words in order to gloat over his victim?"

"Stop it! Stop it!" I say with a disgusted shout. Those questions have been asked so many times, they were useless and painful and futile and every time I found no answers my soul would be torn that little bit more.

I find myself jerking from the bed and standing before Blaise.

"Take it back!" I urge angrily, shoving the necklace towards him.

"No." he replies in a horribly calm tone, his arms lay relaxed by his side and the knowing smirk has returned with a vengeance.

I want to slap him for being so cruel but my body won't move. I try not to think – I don't want to ask why he's here with _his_ necklace – I don't want to know. But he tells me anyway.

"There are secrets you need to discover. Facts need to clarify fiction," Blaise states simply. He stands up so that we are face to face. His breath brushes my face; it's hot and smells of spice and knowledge.

He takes hold of my shoulders. "But I won't be the one to tell you." He plants a quick kiss on my forehead and says, "You can have one secret from me."

Leaning to whisper in my ear, his words coil straight into my head "Harry's alive."

My closed-mouth scream masks the 'pop' of Blaise apparating away.

Harry's alive…


	4. A Futile Visit

Chapter four

A Futile Visit 

Ginny

Is it my turn already? I can't speak. I'm not ready yet. Can you come back later? Can you come back? Please.

Draco

Eighteen. Not a large number. But add _murders _to the end and it multiplies to greatness. My hands should be stained red with guilt. They're not. My shoulders should be sagged and my head hung in shame. But no, it is held high. People who believe in consciences are fools. There is no white, fluffy creature buried deep inside that tells us what is right and wrong. There is no moral voice. Only choice and right now I thinking that I should have made Harry Potter number nineteen.

Standing outside the rundown cottage I am once again safe in the knowledge that poverty doesn't become me. With half closed eyes I glance at my surroundings, an understandable wince passes through me as my feet walk over the cracked, overgrown path that leads to the cottage door. Although I know that everything about the place (read shit hole) is a façade, an elaborate glamour to fool unwanted guests, a sneer still rides on my face. I knock on the door and within seconds an old woman opens it. Her face is peevish and withered. The many wrinkles creating an ugly pattern of old age and hard work.

Recognising me, she pouts her thin lips and raises one hand to cup my face.

"Hello Draco." she croons, leaning in towards me. The veins on her hands are raised like interweaving canals – the blood that runs through them is nearly as cold as mine.

As always, my eyes dart to the heavy pendant that is a burden around her neck. The circular object, which grazes her chest, is as misty as ever. Silently I breathe a sigh of relief.

Without replying I swat away her hand and push her through the door, slamming it behind me.

The grand hall is decorated in a way rich people choose just to show how rich they actually are. A ridiculously large chandelier hangs over our heads, its crystals causing shards of light to fall around us. The interior of the cottage is that of a mansion, the rooms, though poky from the outside, are huge and many, each filled with objects both useless and horrifically, wonderfully useful.

"How are you darling?" the words that pass her lips are honeyed and false. She leans against the panelled wall in a sultry pose disgustingly at odds with her appearance. Everything about her is a lie. That's why I like her.

"Cut the shit Pansy. I'm not in the mood for dress up." I say coldly.

Before me, she lets out a little huff and transforms to her selected self.

I was in my third year when I first discovered that Pansy, the dog-faced girl who hung around me like a toxic fume, was actually a metamorphmagus Unsurprisingly my dislike of the girl lessened dramatically as soon as her usefulness rose. She was no longer just Pansy 'No-I'm-not-God's-poster-child--for-interspecies-breeding' Parkinson – she had skills, skills that could be manipulated. She willingly allowed me to groom her into becoming just who I needed her to be. I ensured that she practiced transfiguring late at night, away from prying eyes. I made sure that she didn't change her natural, plain looks – concealment was more important than vanity. Over the years she became more like me, she adopted several of my less desirable traits and adapted them to form a new persona. A dangerous persona.

Right now she is wearing a body and face especially for me. The long black hair, both her own and not so, falls in deceptively soft waves around her shoulders. The sculptured face, which should by rights be rounded and ruddy, is pale and flawless. Her full lips are smeared in red - both a warning and an invitation.

She straightens out and moves to circle around me. If I was a weak man I might find her predatory prowl attractive, my blood might rush south and I might even feign a look of desire instead of my current expression of annoyance, but I am not weak and such a display sickens me.

"Pansy" I warn, "We need to talk".

She stops in half-surprise at my harsh tone and motions for me to follow her into the sitting room.

Even though I am assured in my control over her, I can tell that a tingle of pleasure runs through her body as _she_ leads _me_. I can tell that she enjoys thinking that my eyes are set on her back, perhaps admiring her curving figure. Of course this is untrue, I'm more likely to be eyeing up the light fixtures than her backside.

Once in the room she motions for me to sit down. I refuse in a clipped tone. This is not a social visit. There is no need for pleasantries.

"It's about the prisoner" I say, carefully watching her face for a telling reaction.

Automatically she glances down at the pendant and responds in a indifferent voice "Oh, what is it?"

"_Somebody_" I begin, stressing the word "sent me a letter this morning" I pass her the carefully folded paper and watch as she slowly unfolds it and lowers her eyes to read.

Long seconds pass. Either she's suddenly become illiterate or the sprawled words shock her as much as they did me.

"Draco" she finally says in a low, urgent tone "this wasn't me. I promise. I'd never, never do anything like this" she stops and adds softly "You know me"

_Yes Pansy I know you; I know you'd sooner kick a man in the balls than other a helping hand. I know you'd sell your own grandmother if I would earn you a few bob and I know that you'd do anything I tell you to do. No matter how degrading or ridiculous and the reason why? Well, it's lurve…good old 'colour-you-pathetic' love. _

I think this rather than say it aloud. After all I can hardly blame Pansy for being the person I created.

**Ginny**

Harry. Harry. Harry. The name I haven't spoken in so long spirals uncontrollably. No longer just _his _or _him_ or _he_ but a name.

"Harry" I try the word out loud; the two forgotten syllables feel heavy and forbidden in my mouth. I feel like it's a word to terrible to be spoken. That's true – to hope is truly terrible.

For a long time after I just sat. I dimly remember standing when he told me so I presume I must have slumped down – perhaps gripping on the covers for futile comfort. Perhaps I cried or maybe I just stared into the past, my eyes unblinking and my fingers holding the reclaimed necklace. Maybe – that's all I have.

I suppose I must have washed and dressed and walked out of the house as if knew where I was going. I don't. I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm walking and walking but I don't know where my steps will lead. I have no idea if what Blaise told me was the truth. I don't believe Harry is alive. Or at least that's what I've been convincing myself. I can't afford to wonder. It is too dangerous to dream.

I was cocooned in black. That's what I'm thinking right now. I'm trying to remember just how the layers of dark cloth felt against my skin. Were they soft or coarse? Did I even care? Could I think of anything other than the daunting ring of the funeral bells? I'm replaying the day in my head; I slow it down when I see the coffin lying like a wooden hero on the altar. How horrible to be boxed in – trapped under the earth – wasting to nothing. I tried not to imagine Harry confined to such a prison. He would not rot away; he would stay young and beautiful and mine forever. How very stupid I was…

I quickly fast forward the tears rolling down my brother's scarred face and pause as the coffin is lowered into the earth. I recall how Hermione let out a helpless cry and averted her eyes to watch the grey, stormy sky. Like me it wanted to cry a rainfall but it just didn't know how.

Lower and lower it goes until it disappears from my sight.

That's it. Story closed. The coffin went and stole Harry with it. There is no epilogue. No final, hopeful scene after the curtains close.

"_There are secrets you need to discover. Fact needs to clarify fiction" _

I stare at my surroundings. Blaise's words have led me here. A queer laugh escapes me as I realise that I'm 200 miles from home (I can't even remember apparating) I'm not at all surprised that I'm here in this place. I guess my return was inevitable. Like B following A.

Bizarre. Strange. Freaky. Unbelievable. I try the words but none seem enough to describe what's happening. I need a word that will personify the hot flush that is suffocating me; I need a word that will epitomise the hurricane of emotions – fear, hope, pain, and love. All of them and all at the same time like a mad dance where no one knows the right steps.

Draco. My husband's cool stare pops in my mind as I walk over the wild-flowered field. Should I feel guilty? Is this a betrayal? No, it can't possibly be. Harry isn't alive. Blaise was lying, he had to be lying and I'm just – I'm just going to confirm that – I'm elevating any doubts; dismissing any loopholes…I'm just talking absolute shit! I sound like Percy for sod's sake! I can't use logic! My heart is hammering so fast it feels like it will explode. I'm thinking hard about breathing. In my head I'm counting each breath (one, two, three) because I know that if I stop and really think about Harry, even for a second, then I'm going to break.

If I stop then I'll see his face. I'll see those brilliant green eyes and I'll see that scar which meant so little and so very much… I'll remember how it felt when he smiled at me and I'll remember how it felt when I walked into that empty room, the room where he should have been asleep, but he wasn't because he had left early that morning…to die.

I'm at the gate now. Butterflies the sizes of buffalos are stampeding in my stomach. This shouldn't be so difficult. I used to be brave – I used to strike fear in the hearts of bad guys everywhere (ok, maybe not) but now I'm a meek little housewife afraid to knock on a door. Being pathetic is my new full time job – the pay's crap and there's zero holiday time but at least I excel at it.

"Oh bugger, bollocks and balls," I mutter shakily, trying and failing to inject some lightness into the situation.

At least I'm now thinking of Harry (how strange it feels to speak of him again) actually my mind is almost totally blank, only the cowardly voice is screeching 'turn back, turn back!" over and over.

With a deep breath, I knock on the door of the Burrow. I could use the hidden key or open the door with magic but this is no longer my home and I am longer a Weasley.

I hear footsteps approaching. Who will it be? I wonder nervously. There's a lottery of redheads and I could get any number. Bill? Dad? Or maybe Mum, the scared child in me wants it to be Mum. I want her to reassure me and worry and nag. I never thought it possible to miss the nag of a chronically overprotective mother. Then again I never thought it possible for the dead to be alive…

Percy? George? The door creaks open. Charlie? Fred? Anyone as long as it is not…

A familiar face stares at me in shocked disgust…

"Ron…"

I can't stand the look in his eyes. His look is one reserved for the lowest form of life on Earth. A brother's love…what a magical thing…

I find my voice, "Ineedhelp." The words tumble into each other.

A short second passes.

I watch numbly as Ron's lips move. The words I strain to hear are so sharp they slice through the air, creating slashes of invisible hate.

"Wrong address"

The door slams in my face.

1

1

1

Draco

"Have you told anyone?" I say, not as a curious question but as a threat. If she stupidly answers yes, then I swear I'll strangle her. I'll smirk as my hands choke the life from her. I'll laugh as she goes limp in my arms. A thousand witticisms will slide from my tongue as I cut her into pieces and feed her to my pet hippogriff for lunch.

Pansy looks like I've accused her of eating her first-born child "Of course not!" she admonishes.

"How could you think that? Haven't I always done whatever you said? Even when you won't give me a reason? Even when I think you're being insane and what you're doing is terribly wrong? How could you say that to me of all people?"

I consider her angry, fake face and reply silkily "Well it's really rather simple. I open my mouth and if by magic, words come out. Apparently humans have been doing it for years. Some new-age types call it 'talking' but I'm really not comfortable with labels." I finish with a lazy smirk.

She gives me a hard stare and then brings her hand to her furrowed forehead.

"Have you a temperature?" I ask in mock-concern. "I'm sure I could summon up some hot soup. What do you feel like, tomato or spiced toad?"

"Draco…" she begins, saying my name with exasperation. "How can you joke at a time like this? If anyone finds out what you did…"

"What _I_ did" I interrupt harshly. "I seem to remember you playing a very large part in it."

I can tell Pansy is now preparing her barrier of nonchalance. She applies the smirk I taught her and moves to sit in the graceful, indifferent position she copied from me. The long dark hair spills around her shoulders and she gazes at me like she's looking at a small but vaguely interesting insect. All this is very impressive but to me its child's play. I've perfected my act for most of my life. The genuine article accepts no limitations.

"As I was saying," Pansy continues offhandedly "if people were to discover what _we_" she stops so I can appreciate her change of wording. I don't. "…did, then Azkaban would be a holiday camp complete with free puppies and complementary hot tubs compared to what they'd do to us. We deprived the wizarding world of its hero – its superman for Christ's sake! We lied and manipulated and cheated our way through the war"

"Aw stop Pansy, you'll make me blush" I retort sarcastically. But I know what she's saying is the truth. The cold, inescapable truth. What we did could be described by some as 'terrible'. It could be seen as wrong. But to me only one word describes what we did – essential. If I could turn back time then I would, without doubt, do it again. With more feeling.

"Do you think they'd praise you?" Pansy asks coolly. "Do you think the Daily Prophet would still want you smouldering on their front cover? Would little fan girls and old, toothless women still kiss your picture every night before they went to bed and dreamt of you? Would you still make them feel everything in just the right places? Knowing you the answer is probably yes but I'm telling you Draco that it wouldn't happen. You'd be shunned and hated"

_Like before _

A scowl crosses my face. "Pansy don't you think I know this?" I spit out angrily. "Or do you think I'm off to frolic through a field with bloody bunches in my hair, praising the fact that my life could crash around me at any moment? I'm not exactly ecstatic about this little revelation! I didn't wake up one morning and think 'hmm…I'm really missing that scar-headed bastard; his brand of righteous bullshit is sorely absent from my day. I do so wish he'd make a sodding comeback – Potter the Resurrection!'"

I sop and attempt to reign in my rising temper.

"This was not supposed to happen." I state in a carefully controlled tone. "Everything was meant to be perfect. Potter was going to be out of the picture and everything was going to be _perfect_." I repeat myself, something I always try not to do.

"Nothing is ever perfect" Pansy says in an oddly wistful voice. I turn to look at her and just for a second she looks like the eleven-year-old girl I once knew, the girl who couldn't find the potions lab and would burst into tears because the doors kept disappearing. Pathetic, I know.

"That's just what ugly people say to make themselves feel better." I say sharply and then add in a tone any preacher would be proud of "But things can be perfect. People and places can be truly, wonderfully beautiful. Not everything in this shitty world has to be flawed and damaged. That's what's wrong with people today; they just accept the bad and settle for 'that'll do' and 'it'll be ok'. Why can't people try for the unattainable? What's wrong with wanting perfection?"

Pansy's red lips curve into a sad little half smile and she says regretfully. "But at what cost? Who decides what price is too high? Is what we did to the Prisoner ok because you say it is? Was destroying his life worth it?" She looks at me intently and asks quietly.

"Tell me that you're happy. Tell me that it was worth it."

What can I say to that? I know Pansy adores me, more than that; she loves me. Would admitting that I'm impossibly happy with my wife please her? Would she be gratified that all we did, all I made her do, was in order to secure my life with Ginny? Would the risk seem worth it to her? After all if I didn't own Ginny, then Pansy probably believes she would take her place at my side and in my bed. It would never happen. If I couldn't have Ginny then I wouldn't want anyone.

I consider lying to her and admitting that happiness forever evades me. I could say that I'm never sure Ginny isn't thinking of him when she's with me. I could say that he is always with us, if not in body then is spirit. Always. He is a lingering reminder that never goes away; he is in every long pause and pensive stare of my wife's. He is ingrained in every memory and every past tense. He is as much part of the present as he is the past. I will never be free of him, he is a bad stench that clings to me and as much as I wash and scrub and peel away, I will never be clean. She will never be clean.

I could say this but I don't. Why? Well, it's like they say…the truth hurts.

"It was worth it." I confirm finally in a firm voice. It was worth it.

She nods her head and wraps her bravado tighter.

"That's good then" she begins cockily. "I'd hate to think we went through all of that trouble for nothing more than a good shag." She pouts and waits for my reaction.

My face remains impassive. I do not wish to give her the satisfaction of my reaction. (Please ignore the rhyming; it is entirely unintentional I assure you. There is no poetry in my soul only a voice demanding that Potter's guts lay splattered on my shoes before the week ends.)

"Is she then?" Pansy asks slyly, managing to push her cleavage out even more. (I may buy her a large, woolly jumper for Christmas – the poor girl might catch her death otherwise.)

"Is she what?" I say with a playful smirk. I know exactly what the horny bitch means but if she wants to play games then I'm willing enough.

Pansy rolls her eyes impatiently and clarifies. "Is she a good lay? Dynamite in the sack? Fireworks in the boudoir? I always thought her too skinny – nothing to hold on to. But if that's your taste…"

"I guess it is." I drawl. "Now can discussion of my sex life be postponed? We do have slightly bigger things to think about."

She lets out a silky little laugh and begins to wrap a strand of thick, dark hair around her finger.

"Yes, I dare say we do. But I don't know what you expect me to do about it. I can't exactly turn all Miss Marple stuck in here, can I?" she gives me a long-suffering look as she gestures around her surroundings. Surroundings, I very generously provided.

"Pansy please." I begin in a scoffing tone. "You're not exactly setting up residence in a shanty town are you? This place is a palace, at least on the inside. You know why I want you here. It's not safe for you to be on the outside. The Parkinson name is in tatters. Purebloods no longer rule the wizarding world. _He_ assured that." I spit out the 'he' refusing to give any sort of adulation to Harry Potter. That prick gets worshipped enough, even as a corpse.

Pansy lets out a little puff of annoyance and stands up. "I understand that." She says, somewhat reluctantly. "But I can help. You'll need my help. You always have done. We're a team, you and I." She moves closer. I stand my ground, waiting for the inevitable, sickening display of flirtation.

"Draco…" she croons. Here we go. "I want to help you in any way I can. I'm thankful for what you've done for me. All you've done…" she leaves the words hanging as I swallow the bile of disgust which rises in my throat.

I don't want to think about that…

"Fine." I say. "I will need you're assistance but not yet. I have to be careful. Nothing can arouse suspicion. I'm walking a tightrope and any wrong step can cause me to fall and if I fall everything will be lost. Everything." I finish dramatically. I hardly need to exaggerate the situation but I know how much Pansy loves dramatics.

"Of course." Breathes the Drama Queen. "Of course. So what will you do? How will you find the person who is doing all this? Have you any idea who it might be?" Pansy finishes in a blur of excitement. She no longer senses the very real threat we are both under. She s enjoying this…the sadistic bitch.

"I've made many enemies in my life but none who could possibly know about Potter." I say, considering the possibilities. We were so careful. It was all planned so carefully.

"Perhaps it's someone who's with him now." Pansy whispers secretively.

I've already wandered down this avenue of thought. "Doubtful." I confirm in a steely voice.

Pansy scrunches up her perfect, manufactured nose and crosses her arms. Her foot taps on the floor. I believe she's attempting to think. Huh…

"Right, Right" She starts after a while. "I can't think of who it could be. I've never spoken about it and you certainly haven't…" she stalls to a halt and looks at me intently. Her voice is now strong and sly and assured.

"_Draco_, what are you going to do?"

A slow, lazy smirk spreads across my face. I answer.


	5. A Discussion and Discovery

Just a mini-chapter of plotting, evilness and big old hints. In future chapters Harry makes a comeback, but is he the same boy (man?) that Ginny loved? Can Ginny ever forgive the father of her child for his betrayal? Why has Blaise got revenge on his mind? Is Snape really into wearing women's fishnet tights and why the heck is that ferret down Hagrid's trousers (big ew!). All expect two will be revealed… but only if you review!

Otherwise I'm climbing in my hole and waiting for HP6 to land on my doormat.

_**A Discussion and Discovery**_

**DRACO**

"Draco, what are you going to do?"

A slow, lazy smirk spreads across my face. I answer.

"I'm going to do what I should have done years ago," I pause; tilt my head, savouring how good the cliché feels on my tongue. Perhaps I should have gone on the stage; I really have that dangerous drawl perfected.

A truly malicious smile emerges on Pansy's face, like a shark coming up for air after a feast, its ready for more.

"You're going to finish the job!" she exclaims, looking ready to begin a frenzied jig of sadistic victory.

"Well, yes, that is the idea," I reply, warming to the topic. Despite the cold fist that seems to be intent on ramming my consciousness with giddy taunts of '_you'll lose her, you'll lose her!' _I'm actually beginning to get a little excited. During my early years at Hogwarts I would fill endless sketchbooks with detailed drawings of Potter's demise. What fun they were! I believe I set my pencil to nearly every known form of horrendous torture devices in those years. Every picture, every scribble of pain, contained a pathetic, scar-headed boy screaming bloody murder for his _mummy_. _Oh mummy! Make it stop!_ The animated speech bubble would squeak. Hilarious.

"How will you do it?" Pansy asks. I imagine ideas are already speeding through her twisted little brain. Perhaps she is considering tiny piranhas slowly feasting on his internal organs, first the liver and finally the heart, each torturous bite lasting an eternity… Or maybe she is considering which Unforgivable curse shall fire from my wand. Or perhaps she believes me to take the muggle route and kill him with my bare hands…a knife in the back…maybe.

"I'm still considering my options." My voice is smooth and my face a calm mask of cold malice.

She nods and her smooth white hand expertly removes the pendant around her neck.

"Here," she says, passing the priceless object to me. I pause, just for a second, before reaching out and taking it. The mist inside the pendent changes to red in my touch. It's been a long time since I have held such an object; an object which has the potential to destroy my happiness from a simple crack. The power it commands is both exhilarating and terrifying. _I suppose I should wear gloves…_

"Some would say that you should leave him alive," Pansy says, her tone low, melodious and of course completely insincere, "After all he's _happy_ now…we wouldn't want to ruin that now, would we?"

_Gosh no!_ I think with a scoff_, heaven forbid little Harry Potter being anything other than deliriously happy…his mental state has of course, always been my top priority! Fuck my marriage or my wife as long as he's fine then I'll sleep soundly at night! _

"Do you really believe that when Ginny finds out, that she'll leave you?" Pansy says simply, her eyes failing to shield that foolish hope and her blasé tone hiding none of the pleasure she is undoubtedly feeling.

"She'll never know," I declare with a hint of a threat. "I'll find the bastard who wrote that note and make him wish that his whore of a mother kept her knickers on that night when his father asked so smoothly, _'how about it darling?'" _

"Draco, you're beginning to sound like you're reciting one of those bloody awful muggle screenplays! Let me guess…you're preparing your pistols for a duel at dawn!" Pansy finishes with a giggle.

"Ha. Ha." I yawn and place the pendent carefully in my pocket. I'll need it later. I want Harry to know exactly what he has lost before he dies. I'm honest like that.

Pansy moves slowly forward. I peer down to see her shaking hand reaching towards my shoulder. "Don't you want to see him?" she asks, nerves causing her voice to rise and falter.

That rare feeling of shame causes my face to heat up. A Malfoy does not blush! It's practically a genetic requirement.

"No," I answer shortly and jerk my shoulder away. I hate it when she brings_ it_ up. I have more important things to wish dead.

Her face drops momentarily before the imitated mask shields her features.

"So, you're leaving now?" she enquires coolly. "What's first on the Draco 'revenge agenda'?"

I raise my chin and gaze up to the ceiling in mock consideration. Strangely enough it feels just like I'm compiling a shopping list. Of course in the place of broccoli there will be grisly murder, but hell, the principle is the same.

"Send Potter to that cloudy place in the sky." I muse lightly, only someone who knew me well, like Pansy, would detect the undertone of malice. "Then hunt down the blackmailer; provide him with a bloody death worthy of Voldemort's most depraved dealings and then I might, if I finish early, take a long walk in the country, pick bluebells and coo over little baby lambs…I'm not certain of the details just yet…"

"You're not fooling anyone, Draco Malfoy."

"Maybe not," I reply then add seriously, "But first I have to see my wife."

"Why?"

"To tell her I love her, of course…"

**GINNY**

Growing up, stumbling behind the rowdy shadows of my brothers, was an experience; a fun but _incredibly_ messy experience. It was a running joke in my close-knit family that I was like a carrot pulled fresh out from the ground, orange and caked in mud. (I never said that my relatives were comedians. Perhaps my father had exhausted his nicknaming capabilities by the time I came along) Up until I was around eleven I don't think my hair was ever combed neatly or my hand down clothes ever without a stain or two (sometimes the stains originated from the Bill Era – now that's what I call endurance) and my face was never without a smear of dirt. I liked it that way. I was young, carefree and blissfully muddy. I loved it.

But now that same summer dirt is iron wire under my fingernails. The desperate act I have just committed brings curdles of disgust in my stomach. If anyone saw me now they would think me insane.

I am standing in a place I have never before been brave enough to stand. The sky above me is blue and peaceful. The trees around me are knowing and sheltering.

The ground before me is broken. I am standing at his grave. His coffin lays unopened before me. I have only to stumble down into the hole I sinfully created and my mind will once again be put at ease. The sight of his rotted body, past all recognition, will stay with me forever but at least I will be free of this crushing doubt. At least I will be free.

I hear the sound of footsteps behind me. They don't matter. I step forward and drop the shovel; it falls to the ground without a sound. My foot slips and I let out a yell of fright as I land within inches of the coffin. My shaking hand reaches in to jacket and pulls out my wand. I wait and wait. In a whisper I utter a spell and the wooden lid creaks open. My body is stiff and try as I might, I just can't move.

_Do it you fool! Look! _

"Ginny?" a familiar, beloved voice questions incredulously. Their tone of fear and disgust is ignored. I don't turn around. I've come too far. I've lost so much. I can do this.

I look into the coffin.

"No, no, no…" I mumble helplessly. No.

"Ginny. Get up!" the voice demands, "Now!"

But I can't. I can't even breathe. I can't even think.

It's all true. Blaise was telling the truth.

The coffin is empty.

_Harry where are you? _

A sudden resolve floods through me.

_Harry, I'll find you…_


	6. A Hope and Harry

**A Hope and Harry**

**GINNY**

Strength can come to a person at the strangest of times. I always wondered how Harry had the resolve to keep on fighting. Even we he was exhausted, broken and fading into nothing, he still clung on. In my sixth year I used to tell Draco this and he would throw back his beautiful head and let out a bark of pure scorn. "Saint Potter! What next? His own herd of horny nuns?" he would scoff loudly. His face remaining, as always, unreadable but his eyes, those eyes told so much, they screamed out his hate and envy. They seemed to burn through my skin like flame on paper, and take pleasure in mocking my childish delusions.

"He's no hero," Draco would say with a dismissive wave. "Lucky perhaps, but don't mistake him for what doesn't exist. Heroes only live in fairy tales Ginny. Good, unselfish deeds breathe in books alone. Potter has only survived thus far by foolish luck and the incompetence of others." His tone was cynical and flat (and dangerously hollow…); like the speech was one he had heard many times before and was now reciting not out of feeling but merely because it was expected. I expected it. I had wanted somebody to shake me out of my adoration. I had wanted Draco, whose cold telling of the truth could always be guaranteed, to slice through the aura of power which Harry seemed to radiate and strip him of the pedestal on which he stood. At that point Harry was still a shadow and a thought to me. I knew him as a Friend, a Seeker, a Hero but it wasn't until months, maybe years, later than I truly loved him for who he was. He was flawed, both inside and out. His 'hero complex' was as infuriating as it was admirable. He was annoying, arrogant, his feet stunk and he always, without fail, hogged the covers. But he was Harry.

I don't why I'm telling you all this. It all seems so ridiculous, so completely unreal. Perhaps if I delve into the past then the future won't seem so hard. Perhaps if I think back hard enough then the present can be stilled like closing your eyes as a child in the dark and pretending that it's a bright, sunny day. Stupid logic I know, but as I stand here with my numb, filthy hands glued to my sides and a disgusted voice hammering impatiently for my attention, it seems the only thing to do.

Before I spoke about strength, and I know deep down that I have it. No person can go through what I have and not be strong. Yet some part of me knows that I can't do this alone. I need help. I need –

"Ron," I say, turning around. My voice is too calm. He looks at me like I'm insane (told you so). His face is stark white and the messy red hair seems unnaturally bright and cheerful as it falls past his wide blue eyes. He is wearing a long black coat, dark jeans and a smart black shirt. This is not the Ron I knew, this is not the Ron who used to feed me worms and spell my bedroom to disappear (I had to sleep on the sofa for three weeks before Mum forced the counter spell out of him). He looks mature and clever and handsome…this can't be my brother!

"What the hell have you done!" he says in a half-whisper, half-shout. His eyes dart to the discarded shovel and back to me.

"The grave, I mean the ground, is protected my magic. I had to use that…" I trail off as I point weakly to the shovel. _He should know this!_ I think ludicrously _He should have known because he should have done it himself! He was, is, Harry's best mate! Why is he standing there looking at me like I'm mad when I'm the one who…who has…become a grave digger…oh right…_

"You're fucking crazy!" he mutters lividly but his body remains rigid, only his face is expressive as it shifts from shock to anger and back again.

"Come here," I tell him, my tone remote. Somehow we both know that those two words are an invitation for his world to come crashing down.

For a long moment neither of us moves. Ron shakes his head, as if to remove the image which is before him. It won't work. I've tried it already.

He takes a reluctant step forward, stops, takes a long, shaky breath and walks on, each step growing longer until he finally breaks into a run. He collapses besides me and without looking down, turns to me, an expression of utter confusion and fear on his face.

"Gin…?" he falters softly. He is waiting to be pinched and awoken from this strange dream. I wish I could send him back to sleep, I wish I could know why Blaise came to me, I wish I was ten years old again, I wish I could recognise the brother who used to be so much a part of me, I wish I could remember my husband in all this madness but I can't.

"Look down."

The blue eyes of my brother peer down. Silence stretches before us. No shouting. No screaming. Nothing. Just silence. Silence and tears.

"Ginny," he starts quietly, his chest rising and falling rapidly, "Tell me everything."

**DRACO**

If I believed in karma, then right now I would say that I've been well and truly screwed.

Remembering a very rare piece of advice from my father, bestowed in the vain hope that I might follow in his misogynistic footsteps, I had discreetly placed a tracking charm on my wife's wedding ring. I had chosen the delicate band with its rich ruby jewel as it had immediately reminded me of her. Frail but beautiful. Simple yet disarmingly complex. She is a contradiction. She is mine. She is standing before the open, empty coffin of Harry Potter. Fuck.

Why is it that when things go wrong, they go so spectacularly, so horrendously sodding wrong that you feel like jumping off a bridge or shouting 'Avada Kedavra' in the nearest mirror? I'm not one for fatalist thinking, strange as it may seem my messed-up childhood actually bred a great deal of optimism in me, but right now, with my blood frozen in my veins and my control threatening to explode, that confidence is running extremely thin.

I watch with an almost morbid fascination as Ron (a.k.a the brainless git) runs and falls next to Ginny. Standing up here, high on the heath, I can see only the back of their red heads standing static, as if I'm the controller, slyly manipulating their movements. In part this is true, yet I can gain no satisfaction. Saying 'that this was NOT meant to happen' would be the biggest, most idiotic understatement but it needs to be said. I need you to know that everything I have done has been for her. Everything. She is the reason why I stole Harry's 'life'. She is the reason why that damn coffin is empty. It is her. Always her.

The cold wind streams through my hair and it flies back like a bright beacon amidst the now overcast sky. I pull my long wool coat closer and calmly place my hands in the pockets. If she were to turn, just a fraction, then I would be in her sight. But she won't. Her curling red hair falls down her shoulders as her head remains bowed. Ron turns to her and I can distantly see his pale profile. I won't bore you with the details of those wretched Weasley features.

_All good things come to those who wait…_standing here, watching my wife once again under _his_ grasp, that lie has never seemed so pathetic. I can see now that I've made a terrible mistake in waiting so long. I absently wonder how the hell she found out but my mind is now elsewhere. It is now lingering on his face; his face which will soon be slack and pained once more.

"Harry, enjoy it while its lasts…" I mutter maliciously, my fingers already itching to reach for my wand.

I take a step forward and stare at the back of my wife's head.

"Oh, and Ginny…," I whisper in a low, penetrating voice, "I love you."

**GINNY**

"This is unbelievable." Ron shakes his head wearily; his hand brushing carelessly through his hair. "How can it…how can he-," his voice breaks away and he looks me with close scrutiny.

"I'm not making this up!" I declare, sickened at the thought, "Christ Ron! What kind of person do you think I am?"

He sighs with something like derision and looks away. Heaven knows what's running through his mind. We are sitting side by side on the grass heath, overlooking the empty grave, yet the space between us couldn't be further apart. Over the last few minutes, I have told my brother everything, which when spoken out loud seems like nothing at all. Hearing myself speak in such an unsure, floundering voice, was like being dragged back to childhood, when I was trying to tell my family about a strange little book and the way it would send both shivers of fear and pleasure through my young body. I couldn't find the right words then either. I have nothing except for the 'truth' of a man I hardly know and…my eyes travel back to the grave…and that. I have that coffin. Morbidly, it fills me with a kind of hope.

"I saw the body, Ginny," Ron says through clenched teeth. "I-I felt his skin, he was cold. It was like he had gone and all that was left was his skin or something…I can't describe it." His eyes glaze over slightly. He must be thinking about that day. How could he not?

How could he not go through every awful detail in his mind, over and over, until something sticks out, some strange thing, which tells him that what his sister has been saying might not be madness?... It might be true.

"I know Harry's alive," I say, with a confidence that surprises me. "I just know it."

I add in a lighter tone, nodding towards the coffin, "Plus there's that, not exactly occupied is it?"

"Oh God…" Ron groans with a hint of brotherly affection, "I see you've still got the knack of saying the wrong thing at the worst possible time!"

I shrug as he gives me a brief smile before once again turning serious.

"We just can't trust Blaise. He was a world-class prick at Hogwarts. I can't see how he could know anything anyway; he was always so up himself even worse than Malfoy-" he stops and adds almost cheerfully, "Sorry, forgot he was your…husband." His lip curls as he says that word 'husband'. At the moment, I guilty know what he means.

"Ron, what was it like?" I ask slowly, both desperate and reluctant to know. "I know you've told me before but just once more, please, I need to understand."

I can vividly remember walking into that room. It was 7:45 in the morning. It was my turn to make breakfast in bed.

"_You're risking death you know," _

"_Come on, you aren't that bad!" he said with a grin._

"_Harry," I replied with a long-suffering pout, "I burn toast! My eggs are sloppy! I swear I'm cursed in that kitchen!" _

"_Gin, I'll have two sugars in my tea…" he smiled, snuggling back under the covers. _

They were his last words. Can you believe it? You'd think he'd say something profound, something I would remember later on and cry over but no, he spoke about tea! Then again that was Harry all over. When he was with me he wasn't a hero, he didn't deliver grand monologues or rally the troupes to victory. He talked about quidditch and music and football…to this day I have no idea what 'off-side' means.

"Not again Ginny, not yet," Ron replies flatly. "I need to get my head around this."

I nod and absently start picking up blades of grass, twisting them around and throwing them back down. The air seems heavy with awkwardness. Ron leans back and lies on the ground, looking up at the sky with unfocused eyes. His long legs are sprawled in front of him. His breathing is uneven. Is hasn't sunk in yet. Will it ever?

"Ron…" I venture after I lie back next to him, so close that our fingers are nearly touching.

"Yeah?"

"Why did you come? I thought you'd never talk to me again after-" _I married Draco_

He says nothing for a few minutes. I turn my head to the side. His eyes are scrunched shut, as if in pain or anger.

When he speaks his voice is deliberately blithe, "Lets just say I made a promise to a lady."

"Huh? What lady?"

"Can't a man be mysterious?" he moans but continues anyway, "I promised Mum. When you were born, she handed you over to me and you were just so ugly! All pink and with a big mop of orange hair. I knew that you would be prime meat for bullies so I asked her if I could take care of you. Recognising your dire physical appearance as a beacon for ridicule, she made me promise to look after you. Take you under my dashing and far more mature wing…"

"Oh really?" I comment wryly. "You must have had an extraordinary vocabulary at age one!"

"Oh I did," he replies and for a second it almost feels like old times. But then he grows more serious and once again a stranger is by my side.

"Nothing has changed, Ginny" he admits heavily.

"Of course it has," I reply with confusion. "Everything is different now. Harry… he's alive and we're going to find him." Perhaps optimism is clouding my perspective but I can't see how it can be anything other than…well, different.

"Maybe so," Ron starts, his grim face still staring into the sky. _We won't find him up there._

"Maybe Harry is…alive or maybe he's not. This could all be a cruel, twisted trick. All I know is that I'm going to help you. You're my sister. I have to help you." He suddenly sits up and stares down at me. Blue eyes into brown.

"But I don't have to forgive you." His voice is sad and sure.

My face turns white. He's said this before but the sense of betrayal, the hurt, hasn't lessened with time.

"Fine," I respond in a small voice. I don't know what I expected. I guess I dreamt of a big reconciliation full of hugs and tears. I guess I expected things to just pop back into place, like suddenly finding the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle and making the picture perfect again. I guess it's about time I finally grew up.

"You'll help me find Harry, wherever he is?"

"Of course," he says, voice thickened with emotion. "He was my best friend too."

I think out loud, "The only lead we have is Blaise…not much to go on, is it?"

Ron doesn't answer. He is looking down towards the coffin.

"I suppose we need Hermione at a time like this. She'd know what to do," I say with a hint of nostalgia, remembering slightly guiltily, of how I once resented the girl who always seemed to know far too much and whose eager hand seemed forever reaching in the air for praise.

"No!" Ron commands, spinning around.

I stare at him. "Why not? She deserves to know."

"I said no!" he shouts, "I'll help you but I don't want her involved. She can't go through this."

He lets out a shaky breath, calming himself down.

"Come on," he says to me, holding out his hand to help me up. "We've an arrogant prick to track down."

He begins walking down the hill. A sudden thought occurs to me, "Ron, how did you know I was here?"

He stops and turns around. "I just had a feeling," He answers simply before carrying on.

I am left watching his retreating back. He's still a stranger but at least I don't have to do this alone. I'm not forgiven yet but there is still hope. I'm beginning to realise that there is always hope.

"Hurry up!" my brother shouts, tapping his foot impatiently.

I smile, just a little and run down to him.

There is hope yet.

**DRACO**

I walk slowly through the sleepy village, nodding politely at the passing muggles who wander through the afternoon, unknowing and oblivious. Their faces are smiling and woefully simple, as if the most complex thing they will have to think about is what to have for tea. They know nothing about power or passion. They know nothing about the pleasure magic can bring. To be without magic is to not live at all yet here they are, with their pasty, fat legs pushing through garish shorts and their stilted English manners, restricting any sense of freedom or spirit. They are all sheep. Father was right in that at least, they are pitiful and weak. Worthless, every last one…

I thought it best for Harry to return to his people.

My feet carry steadily on the path, I know by heart. I gaze vaguely at my surroundings, the leafy trees, and the excess of flowers, the mossy lake and the quaint, unassuming cottages, each one full of its own quiet character. Everything about this place is gentle and pretty. Is this is hell then heaven will be a walk in the park…

Is this all sounds too fairy tale, too jammed full of Laura Ashley (a naff muggle brand adopted by old wrinkles everywhere) clones and _niceness, _then…tough…get over it. If you want blood and gore then close your eyes and embrace that sadistic little voice which exists in us all. Listen as it whispers all those nasty secrets and commands, dispose of reality and become the thing that goes bump in the night.

In real life not everything is as it seems. It's been said a million times before but it remains the ringing bell of truth. I'll give you a piece of advice, always look beyond the surface because you never know when that hidden demon will jump up and rip you to shreds.

I stride up a windy lane and stop before the first house. In the garden, sitting contentedly on the too-green grass, there is a woman whose honey blonde hair shines gently in the sun. She looks like something out of a picture, something so wholesome and normal, that it leaves you with a queasy feeling in the pit of your stomach. I used to think such overtly happy people were some kind of twisted myth, used as futile hope to those reaching suicide point (an exclusive clique for losers and deadbeats everywhere), but then I met her. I only dimly remember that meeting, as she made almost no impression at all. She was nice and still is. _Nice, _whoever thought of such a word? It is so flimsy and useless. It's what people churn out when they can think of nothing else to say. 'Oh she was very _nice,' _roughly translates into, she was so goddamn boring that Professor Binns seemed like the grand master of excitement, in comparison.

One of those dire muggle novels is two inches from her face and she lets out a quick, excited gasp before peaking discreetly up and then down again, a blush appearing.

_Then he held her tightly to his manhood. 'Why, sir! Explain yourself!" the quivering virgin demanded, her knees already going weak. 'There is no need for words my darling. I am going to show you the universe! Starting with the ninth wonder of the world…"the dashing officer replied… _

"Ahem," I say loudly as she looks up, an embarrassed smile on her pleasant face.

"Richard!" she exclaims, standing up and wiping the stray grass of a very rounded stomach. "I was just doing some light reading."

"So I see," I reply with eyebrows raised, "Are you enjoying it?"

"I think they will be in a page or two!" she says perkily, placing the dog-eared book on the grass. "Come in, come in," she gestures, welcoming me through the gate. "We haven't seen you in a few months. How are you? How's the job?" she asks cheerfully. "I so admire you. It must be terribly difficult to see all those people without homes or families."

I nod my head and put on my best sympathetic, 'adore-the-humble-hero' expression, "Yes, it just breaks my heart." Even I'm impressed about how sincere and wimpy my voice sounds.

"It's such hard work," _being a fictional humanitarian _"But I get through it." _Quite easily actually, considering it's all a load of bullshit…_

She, who I suppose deserves a name (it's Lara) smiles at me adoringly, like one who sees only the good in a person and is right now in the presence of one of God's little foot soldiers.

"Is he in?" I ask, nodding towards the ever-so-cute house.

Lara lets out a little sigh. "Yes, he's in. Working on the book. Again." Her face takes on a look of exasperation. "He's been sitting in front of that computer screen for two days straight. Say's he can't write a thing, he claims that his muse has absconded to greener pastures, or something like that. I try not to listen when he goes into one of his little moods…" her face darkens, "he can say such strange things…"

"Is that so?" I respond mildly. The sooner I get this done, the better. I cannot risk him remembering. At least not until the very end…

"I'll just get him." Lara walks into the house and moments later returns with another by her side.

That familiar, icy cold burden of hate shudders through me. As I look at him, a fake smile placed carefully on my face, I am eleven years old again, offering a hand of friendship and being rejected for a Weasley.

'_You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.'_

'_I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks.' _

That shame has never left me. That anger never will.

A boyish smile explodes on his tanned face. "Rich! How great to see you!" he takes my hand and shakes it with a vigor saved only for those he loves the best. (Ironic isn't it?)

His black hair is as messy as ever; it sits like some demented cat on the top of his head and flops past a pair of stylish glasses, strands hanging over his sludge-green eyes. Some would say that those eyes were, what's the word…remarkable, but they are not. They are standard, run-of-the-mill, muggle eyes, which see nothing, nothing, which I do not wish them to see.

"Harry." I force myself to smile and place a friendly hand on his shoulder. "How's it going, old friend?"

"Great." He replies brightly. We both look down at his 'outfit', which consists of a Hawaiian shirt, odd socks and appalling denim jeans, which are so old; they would make that old git Dumbledore seem like a spring chicken.

He lets out a laugh. "I guess I've been a bit distracted. Writer's block…dreadful thing! I've spent the last hour describing a tea bag!" He puts on an arty, high-strung voice, "Oh hark at the way it drips! Soggy and brown, it should wear a crown!"

He grimaces, "See what I mean."

"Indeed." I agree, not bothering to laugh. "I thought we could go for a drink. Catch up."

"I could do with a pint," Harry responds, absently rubbing the dark stubble on his chin. "Yeah, why not? Let's go."

Lara crosses her arms and lets out a mock huff, "I'll just stay in and do the ironing, shall I?"

"Aw darling, are you feeling a little neglected?" Harry asks in a soft voice, moving to kiss her neck.

I think I'm going to be sick.

"I suppose you can go," Lara says in a begrudging tone. "Is this what is going to be like when we're married? Me stuck in with the kids while you go off boozing with your mates?"

Harry smiles widely, showing his annoyingly white teeth. "You know it is," he responds jokily, "I'll want my tea on the table, preferably Yorkshire puddings, and then I'll need you to rub my feet, every night and then – ow!" he yells, as Lara's elbow rams into his stomach.

"Shall we go?" I interrupt. The oh-so-nauseating banter is already causing my temples to pound.

Harry nods and kisses his fiancé on the cheek. "I promise I won't get too pissed."

We begin walking down the lane. To any outsider, I imagine we just look just like any other pair of friends. One scruffy and lets face it, pretty damn ugly, and the other rather handsome. We look usual. I joke with him and talk to him as if I have known him all my life. Looking at us together, nobody would suspect a motive. Nobody would suspect a murder. Idiots.

The sky is gradually getting darker and darker. The safety of day is slithering away into the night, the eternally dangerous night.

Harry casts a speculative look at my attire. "You aren't going like that, are you?" he asks. Coming from the person wearing a bright orange shirt, this is beyond an insult.

"Yes," I respond tightly, managing not to drop my voice into a growl. "Is there a problem?"

Harry stops and considers, "Well, you are a bit drab. It looks like you're going to a funeral."

_Does it really Harry? How strange. How very strange. _

**_Coming up soon: Actual Draco/Ginny interaction/Blaise/A big secret/Harry/Ron/Flashback galore/Pansy/Discoveries/Lies/A baby/Heartbreak/Betrayal/Avada Kedavra/Love/Burrow/End of the world? _**

**(Not necessarily in that order!) **

_Woohoo! 20 days and counting! _


	7. A Past Encounter

Huge, gigantic, bigger than…something big, thank you to – Krumpet, TicTacTurtle, Blood-Debt, Whimsy007, harryluver13, Crumble Cake, White Pixie, A new reader (whoever you may be), Asterisk Truly and MonkeytoMan for reviewing!

**Chapter Seven**

**A Past Encounter**

**DRACO**

"I just feel like I'm missing something. Like there is a plot right in front of me, ready to be exploited, but it refuses to come clear!" Harry exclaims, complaining about his lack of literary talent. I don't think I can take the irony much longer. I almost feel sorry for the poor shit. Then again, I more likely to lovingly sponge bath a blast ended skert than back out.

"So what have you got so far?" I ask blandly. As if I give a shit! Honestly, what could he really write about? Life as a pathetic loser? The world according to Harry 'who-the-hell-I-am' Potter? How can a person describe the beauty and passion of love or the wonderful, horrifying complexities of life, without actually experiencing them firsthand? Being content in a little cottage with a little, obedient woman at one's side is not living. It is merely breathing. In and out, in and out, without ever wondering why, without ever questioning what can be changed and when and how. I think that is why I first fell in love with Ginny. She was so alive. Ever emotion she felt was truly embraced, given freedom to explode. She made me feel a fire, a ferocious heat that I never thought I could. She was, is, my second chance. I can't let him spoil that.

If you think about it, I'm doing him a favour. By releasing him from a life of mediocre, he won't wake up one morning in forty years time and curse at how badly he has fucked up. He won't have that mid-life crisis and run away with his teenage secretary, he won't take out a second-mortgage to buy that red sports car or prance around in leather trousers, beer belly hanging out and eyes winking as he flirts and desperately tries to pull anything with his pre-historic chat up lines. _Can I see your I.D, you don't look a day over 17… Get your coat love, you've pulled…_

Harry lets out a weary sigh. "Everything. Nothing. It used to be so clear, all the lines I would use and how the characters would seem. But lately things have been…I don't know…blurry or something. I have an ending in mind already but the beginning, damn, that blasted thing won't come together!"

"The beginning is easy," I say softly, "It should be the end you have a problem with."

_Sooner than you think…_

I discreetly survey the area. The dark lane we are walking down is deserted. There isn't a house or a person in sight.

I begin to slow down my pace. Harry, caught up in his own distracted thoughts, doesn't notice and continues walking on. I take out a pair of gloves from my pocket and swiftly put them on. My wand feels immensely heavy but blessedly familiar. I think that I have always know, deep down, from my very first day at Hogwarts, that it would come to this.

Inevitable.

I stop completely and wait for him to turn. The pendent, containing his dangerous memory, is wrapped tightly around my wrist. I want him to know. I want him to remember.

Already, the curse is on my tongue, waiting impatiently like a greedy child. Harry, finally noticing that my footsteps have stalled, turns around, a look of friendly exasperation on his face.

"What's the hold up?" he calls, "I'm in desperate need of getting completely and totally intoxicated. Beer has to provide inspiration, right?"

"What about the girlfriend?" The ice in my tone is evident even to an idiot like him.

"Oh, Lara won't mind," he replies obliviously.

"I wouldn't want her to think that I'm leading you astray…"

Harry grins slightly, shakes his head and then continues walking.

I don't follow him. I just watch. Silent and unwavering, I unravel the pendant from around my wrist, place it in my left hand and in the right, I raise my wand in the air.

This is it. All the planning and the risks for this… Bugger, I hate anti-climaxes!

"Mem-," _nearly three years lost _"oril,"_ three years without her_. I pause on the last syllable of the spell which stripped Harry of who he truly was.

"Frezzolai!" a voice cuts across me.

Shocked, I remain still, eyes remaining focused on Harry. Harry, who is suddenly immobile. Harry, who is frozen to the spot. Harry, who is still clueless and alive…

"Malfoy," the voice smoulders, "How nice to see you again."

I grit my teeth. The rage inside me is threatening to explode in a roar of pure anger, resentment and fear. No, its not fear, it is terror.

Balling up my hands, the slick wood of the wand pressing so tightly into the cold flesh, I slowly turn behind me.

There he stands, relaxed and arrogant, his golden eyes blazing in his tanned skin. He is like some exotic animal, stalking his prey, carefully waiting for the moment when he will pounce in for the kill. I am nobody's prey.

"Blaise," I respond, my tone flat and cold. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

The bastard lets out a deep, low laugh and moves towards me, his wand pointing towards my chest. Quickly, I do the same. If this turns into a wizard's duel, then so be it…

"I believe it's time we had a talk."

"As you can see, I'm a little busy right now," I grind out, blood running cold.

Blaise looks past me and towards the frozen form of Potter, "Now, now Draco, our boy here will be out of action for quite a while yet. We'll have time enough to discuss business."

"And what business would that bloody well be?" I ask in the calmest voice I can manage.

The night around us is cool and quiet yet nothing can quell the inferno of alarm that rises in me as Blaise saunters closer still.

"Why, the business of destroying your life…of course."

**GINNY**

If you have older siblings then you'll understand that brief stage of childhood, when they were your heroes. Before hormones had ravaged them into teenage anti-Christ's (who transfigured toothbrushes into giant slugs…thanks for that one, George!), they were the people you looked up to. They were brave and bold and…tall. They taught you how to answer back and draw on the walls and in my case, perfect the bat-bogey hex. Out of all my brothers, it was Ron who became my idol. I would follow him anywhere. I believed every word which spilled out of his mouth. For the first four years of my life, I even thought that I was boy, after Ron persisted in telling me that all little girls got shipped off to military camp as soon as they were born. It was only after my mother had sat me down and explained the bizarre 'birds and bees' theory that I began to realise that my brother wasn't the supreme authority of the universe.

At this moment, as I sit awkwardly in the waiting room of a dingy muggle office block, I seem to have reverted back to my younger years, blindly following my brother, trusting him beyond anything else. I have to keep reminding myself about the seriousness of the situation. Or more aptly, the weirdness. Even if we do find Harry, and that's a big if, then what the hell can I say to him? I mean, what would I do? Hug him? Kiss him? Cry? Smile? I have no idea.

"Ron," I begin dubiously, looking around at the shabby chairs and yellowing wallpaper. "Are you sure about this?"

Still flicking absently through an old magazine, Ron replies quietly, "I know a man."

"Fabulous, so do I. Lots, actually. Would you mind telling me why we are here?"

Here, is a non-descript place in the bad side of a busy, muggle town. In the graveyard, Ron had suddenly grabbed my hand and in a loud crack we had apparated to here…of all places to go, (the ministry was my first bet) it was this (luckily) empty room where we had ended up.

Ron gives me an impatient look and carelessly tosses the magazine on the floor. "There are two reasons, firstly, and I'll talk slow so you'll understand, is to locate Blaise and secondly to attempt to discover the whereabouts of Harry," Ron shudders ever so slightly, still unaccustomed to saying the name he had long since tried to forget.

"It would be pure stupidity to go to the ministry with all this," He continues "Rita Sketter would be sniffing around as fast as you could say 'boob job'. The last thing we need is for this to be splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet. Even in our world, people just don't come back to life, there would be mass hysteria."

I really hate it when he's right. "So, who are we meeting?" I ask, wondering absently if I'll ever get a straight answer out of him.

"I do have connections you know," he replies, slightly haughtily. "Believe it or not, you're big brother is actually pretty important."

"Oh I believe it," I say innocently with a hint of a smirk, "Percy is crucial in the counting of paperclips. I bet he'll get a promotion underlying big words in office memos, any day now."

Ron rolls his eyes. "How have I survived without your brilliant wit all these years?"

"Beats me," I smile.

The dusty door at the end of the room opens and out pops a short little woman with a great hive of greying hair. A huge smile spreads on her face as she spots Ron.

"Mr. Weasley!" she greets happily. Ron walks toward her and gives her a friendly kiss on the cheek. "How are you, Ruby?" he asks genially.

"Fine, fine." She gestures towards the open office door. "He's waiting for you."

Ron smiles and then grabs my arm, pulling me across the room. "Let me do the talking," he commands in a whisper.

"Yes Sir!" I huff. Brothers…who'd have them?

We walk into the office, like the waiting room it is desperately in need of a makeover and air freshener…definitely air freshener.

There are two chairs crammed tightly in front of a desk. Behind the desk, is a huge leather chair. It looks beyond ridiculous.

"Ah, Weasley we meet again," the furniture talks. I glance at Ron as if to say 'are you serious!"

The chair swivels around and before me is the person who will, supposedly, help our troubles. His sandy blond hair is slicked back in a bad imitation of early Draco and he is seriously over-dressed in a black suit and tie. He looks like a pubescent James Bond.

It is of course Colin sodding Creevy. Ron and his bright ideas!

"Ginny, old girl, I haven't seen you in years!" he grins, reaching over the table to shake my hand.

"Yes, thank God Ron brought us together again…" I reply pointedly, shooting snide daggers at my brother.

"Indeed," Colin agrees. "So, Ron what can I do for you?"

Shifting in his seat, Ron begins in a calmer voice than I could ever fake, "We've recently had some…unexpected news. I don't need to tell you that full discretion will be needed."

"Of course," Colin nods, switching from old friend to professional (professional what? Spy? Detective? World class Quidditch champion? Figure skater? Lord of the Hippogriffs?)

"My sister," Ron continues formally, gesturing towards me as if to clarify between all his other sisters sitting in the room. "Was visited this morning by Blaise Zanbani. He told her something quite unusual, something which we need to know more about. The only problem is that our cat burglar has decided to vanish without a trace. As you know, he is very rarely seen out and about, meaning that it is bloody difficult to track the prick down. I need you to locate him," Ron pauses before adding in a no-nonsense tone, "quickly."

Colin picks up a notebook and scribbles something down.

"Shouldn't be too difficult," he says assuredly. "I'll get right on it."

"Thanks mate. I appreciate it." Ron stands up. "There is one other thing." He lets out a shaky breath. "I need you to put the word out in the muggle world. I'm looking for a male, early twenties, black hair, shorter than me, light build and wearing glasses."

Colin lets out a low whistle. "Narrow it down would you, Ron?" he says "That description won't get me very far."

"Ok," Ron replies heavily, briefly glancing at me. "He's got a scar on his forehead, shaped as a bolt of lightning."

We both stare at Colin, waiting for the inevitable.

"You don't mean…" He shakes his head and looks at me with a question in his eyes.

I nod in confirmation. Even now, it doesn't seem quite real.

Colin, shock making him look even younger and sillier in his posh tuxedo, puts a hand on the desk to steady himself. I feel oddly disappointed; the sight of him falling of his chair would really cheer me up right now.

"Bloody hell!" he bursts out in understandable disbelief, "How is that even possible?"

"Remember our rule?" Ron asks warningly. "No questions."

"Yeah, sorry…it's just…"

"Insane," I supply.

Colin nods and pushing back the leather chair, stands up. "I'll do my best, talk to some old contacts. I'm guessing you've already ruled out the wizarding world. Nobody as famous as Harry Potter could ever stay unnoticed there." Colin squeezes past the desk and moves to show us out.

"Blaise will be found by the end of the day. That's a promise." He appears serious and confident; perhaps I was too quick to write him off earlier.

"Nice seeing you again," he says to me, "You've aged quite well, apart from the eyes of course, there's a few little lines cropping up. Ah, well can't be helped."

"Thank-you-Colin," I mutter in a tone that re-defines snappish.

We quickly say our curt goodbyes and soon enough we are back in the waiting room.

"Well, where now?" I ask Ron. Ugh…obedience doesn't suit me.

He puts a hand on my shoulder, a sure sign that disapparating is our next move.

"Home," he answers simply. The butterflies are back with a vengeance. He isn't talking about Malfoy manor…

"Oh," I murmur nervously, "Who, erm…will be there?

A smug, knowing grin accompanies, "Everybody."

That's great…really, really… (BUGGER!)…great.

**DRACO**

"Why, the business of destroying your life…of course."

"And just how are you going to do that?" I question him mockingly. I control the urge to turn away and check on Harry. The damage is already done. There is nothing to do but bluff, bluff my way into appearing cold and unconcerned. Easier said than done.

"Cancel my subscription to witch weekly? Or perhaps, turn all my shirts pink. What's it to be, Zanbani?" I continue, with a sneer.

Our wands are still outstretched, each pointing to each other's heart. A direct hit, if either other of us chooses to take it.

"Impressive," Blaise starts, moving to circle around me, golden eyes remaining fixed on mine. "I've always admired that about you. The 'cold-hearted bastard' is a hard act to pull off, but you, well you've got it down to a fine art. I envy you that." His voice carries only the slightest hint of scorn. To unknowing ears he might even appear sincere.

I let out a cold scoff, "Is that your master plan? To kill me with compliments?"

"Who ever said I wanted you dead?" Blaise says in low, secretive tone. He puts on a mock-perplexed expression and moves his head to the side, watching me closely.

"On the contrary, in fact. I'd like to keep you very much alive. It'll be more fun that way."

Complications. Why are there always complications?

I stay deathly silent, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of an outburst. I can not afford to tip my hand, too much is at stake. I can't be sure of how much, if anything, he knows. Obviously standing here, wand posed to blow off Potter's head does fall into the 'caught-red-handed' category but still, one can't be too sure, especially when dealing with slippery bastards like Zanbani.

Blaise, undeterred by my lack of response, continues in his 'o-so-scary-I-think-I'll-wet-my-pants' tone of voice, obviously savouring every second.

"Pansy didn't need to tell me." _Pansy? That lying bitch! _

"I was there," he goes on, voice dropping to a whisper. His exotic face shines with forbidden knowledge in the night sky. "Watching. I saw how you dug her up. Didn't like getting your hands dirty, did you Draco? You were anxious that night, scurrying around like a frantic animal. But there was a problem wasn't there? The draught used to mimic death ran out too early," his voice grew more brutal, "she was nearly dead by the time you shoved her on the ground. Did you panic Draco? When your fingers felt no pulse, did that dubious heart of yours beat that little bit faster? For your sake, I hope it did. I want you to be a human. I want you to feel the same pain that I did. Worse actually."

"Blaise, I never knew you cared," I drawl but all the while my mind is going insane. Everything has been turned upside down, torn apart and ripped to pieces. My perfect future with Ginny, is tippling on the brink of destruction, falter but a little and all will be lost…

I want to demand that the cocky prick answer my questions. I want to spell him into submission. Unforgivable curse, one after another until he breaks. But to ask him, however roughly, however violently, would be supplying him with power over me. No living creature can be allowed to have such a thing. There are two ways I could handle such a situation. I could get angry, emotional and panic like a grade A wuss or I could-

"How very interesting," I slither smoothly. "You have enough fictional material to write a best-selling novel, or maybe just a permanent position in the bargain bin. Either way, kudos Zanbani, I always thought you as dull as water, but at least now I can firmly have in confidence that you are a flaming nut job!"

Blaise's lets out a low, livid growl and those unnatural eyes burn like heated coals. I might even be scared…if I was an eight year old girl!

His voice, unlike mine, cannot be controlled. Every emotion he feels is painted vividly on his face. Like fire, he is uncontrollable. Like fire, he is dangerous.

Standing before me, teeth bared in a predatory fashion, is the same boy I noticed but disregarded at Hogwarts. Blaise had always been the life of the party; an extrovert who appeared to blaze brightly through every situation. I thought him beneath me.

But the mind that seemed to tick in a frenzy of feeling, hidden almost by those who saw only his good-looks, was not cruel, it was not cunning. Scrutinizing his body movements, coiled, ready to spring and his face, exposed and incensed, I can see that he is not driven by logic but by passion. But the question is, who for? Passion for who?

**PANSY**

'_Do this for me Pansy and I'll give you anything.'_

'_Anything?' _

"_Whatever you want. Will you do it?"_

"_Yes Draco, I'd do anything for you, I promise. But I need something from you first."_

_Pause. "Pansy, is this for you or them?" _

"_Does it matter? When Harry has been taken, she'll be yours forever. Is it so wrong for me to want a piece of you, something which she can't take? Nobody will ever love me like you love her, I know this and I accept it but just for once I want to feel…I just want to feel…something. Draco, will you love me, just for one night? "_

"_No, I won't love you. But I'll give you what you want. It'll make father happy…but I'm sure I'll get over that unfortunate side effect. You help me get Ginny and I'll give you a child"_

"_Thank you. You won't regret this"_

"_Yes, I will…" _

"**_Avada Kedavra!" _**

That noise. Screeching, terrible, torturous, a final burst of hatred from a creature incapable of anything else. He was my master I should be sad. But the grip on my shoulder is too tight, the whispered command too urgent, "Get ready, Pansy!" I swallow the bile rising in my throat and slowly turn around. Looking into Draco's wild eyes, I see the monster within him, I should share his perverse excitement but all I feel is disgust. Disgust – at myself, at Draco and at the swaying, near-destroyed figure of Harry Potter. If only he had chosen another girl. If only he had stayed away from Draco's property…

The colours of the battleground, rush into my eyes like an unstoppable comet heading for earth, on the path to utter destruction. Smoke grey, flash of green and red…so much red. The stench of blood seems to cloak me, smothering any sense of reality. This can't be real. I'm in a nightmare. I'll wake up. I'll crawl out of bed and walk into my mother's room. 'I had a bad dream' I'll say quietly. She'll smile and pull back the covers. Shush, everything will be all right…go back to sleep. I must be going mad, since when did my mother ever give a damn!

"Come on." Draco grabs my hand and pulls me up from the undergrowth. We both look over to the centre of the forest. A satisfied smile creeps on Draco's triumphant face. "Looking good, Potter," he snipes, stepping softly forward, dragging me in his wake.

Harry, battle fatigue causing his movements to be sluggish and robotic, turns towards us. His eyes remain blank, his face, black with filth and dried blood, is utterly still. It is the face of a child sent out to war and not understanding why. Then finally, there comes a small spark of recognition.

"Malfoy?" he mutters flatly. As if he can't quite believe his weary eyes, he forces himself to move closer. The wand he used to kill Voldemort stays clutched in his hand.

"What are you doing here?" The simple questions is too far removed from the madness of the situation, it hangs in the air ominously, a threat lingering on each wary word.

Draco merely grins and shakes his head. "Pansy, are you prepared?"

No. Never. Don't make me.

"Yes," I reply. I close my eyes and feel the familiar pain of the transformation send convulsions through my body.

Harry lets out an unbelieving gasp. He is staring at himself. Fading green eyes looking into my own, an exact imitation. "What the fuck?" he exclaims but any further outrage is cut off by Draco's smug shout of 'Crucio!"

"I've been waiting a long time to do that." Draco walks towards the cowering figure on the floor. He ignores Harry's screams and roughly kicks him in the stomach. Again and again. The actions of a jealous little boy. He kneels smoothly down, his wand pointing at his victim, in eager anticipation. The memory charm he has spent years reciting in his sleep, falls from his lips. Wisps of grey vapour coil out of Harry's head and circle around Draco. He is in control. Drawing back his coat, he pulls out the pendent and taps his wand once upon its awaiting surface. The vapour, a small cloud of fog in the clear winter morning, moves towards the object and in a sudden blast of red light, disappears into it. All that was Harry Potter has been lost. Forever.

I steal a glance at Draco. Never have I seen him so happy,

Harry is immobile and doesn't even wince as Draco touches his cheek and delicately takes the silver necklace from his neck. Draco stands up and plays with the necklace in his fingers, bringing the ring to his lips briefly before passing it to me.

"Put this on," he orders. "I have to go. They will be here any minute. Have you got the draught?"

I nod, feeling the weight of the small glass vial in my hands. How can such a tiny thing contain a force as powerful as death?

Draco bends down and easily takes Harry's weight over his shoulder. The face I love too much, gazes up at me and smirks as if to say, _easy, wasn't it?_

"Three days," he says, "I'll see you soon." And with that he disappears, taking Harry with him.

I am left alone with only the blackened corpse of Voldemort to keep me company.

With a deep breath, I remove the stopper from the vial and lift it to my mouth.

"Not yet," a voice smoulders. Blaise. How could I doubt that he would come?

"I have to. His friends are coming." I can hear their cries already. "HARRY!" they urgently scream, over and over. "HARRY!"

I don't turn around to face him. I simply hold out the necklace. I feel my fingers tremble as he takes it.

"Are you going to tell me why you want this?" I ask not caring about the answer.

"No." Blaise places a hand on my shoulder. "Lie down."

I shudder as the draught flows down my throat. It's all fading away…I'm fading away…

"I'll be there when you wake…" is the last thing I hear.

Draco's beautiful face, flashes through my dimming mind.

_All for you…always…_

I embrace the darkness.


	8. A Promise from Blaise

_Just a short chapter. After reading HBP this is (very) AU now…it had to be, otherwise I'd invent some reason to bring Snape in just so he could suffer a horrible, long and uber painful death! I know people still think he's a good guy (deep, deep down) but after what he did (I didn't know whether to scream or cry!) there can be no redemption…I still think there is hope for Draco though!_

**DRACO**

**A Promise from Blaise**

Professor Snape once told me that the most dangerous thing in the world was a woman capable of looking past the flaws and into the person beneath. I can remember at the time, thinking that Severus had been inhaling far too many potion fumes but looking back on that queer, rainy day in my fifth year, his words, strange and unexpected as they were, now seem all too true. Ginny Weasley or should I say Malfoy, has been the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me. She has also been the worst. Without her I would not have become the man I am today. Without her, Harry Potter would not be frozen before me and Blaise Zanbani, would not have his wand aimed at my heart.

"Pansy Parkinson?" I ask out loud, scorn dripping heavily in my tone. "I didn't know she was your type. I thought XY chromosomes were more up your alley…"

Blaise stares at me for a moment. "I'm sorry," he says after a moment's silence, "Was that supposed to be hurtful only we're not eleven years old anymore, Malfoy. Next you'll be telling me to kiss Professor Flitwick's wrinkly arse!" He laughs at his own pathetic joke, throwing back his head and exposing a length of golden skin. What I wouldn't give for a travelling vampire to be passing…

"Yes, I love her," Blaise answers my question, without a hint of shame. "Always have. I was there, every time you used her and threw her away like a piece of rubbish. I was the one who would listen as she went on and on about the wonderful Draco Malfoy!" He casts a dirty, dismissive look in my direction. "What the hell did she ever see in _you_?" he half-whispers to himself before continuing, "I was by her side as she watched you and that Weasley together, hiding in corners and muttering to each other. She wasn't angry at you, damn knows that she should have been but no, you were Malfoy, the boy who had and was everything she ever wanted to be. She would have followed you to the end of the earth and didn't you just know it? Didn't you just love it?"

His face is twisted with open bitterness, the vivid eyes telling me everything I need to know and just what buttons to push…

"Why the past tense Blaise?" I mock, with a smirk on my lips. "We both know that dear little Pansy is just as much under my thumb, so to speak, as she ever was. I say jump and she'll happily leap in the air, tongue out and awaiting a pat on the head. Admittedly, your, what was it you said? Oh yes, _love _for her is somewhat of a surprise but still, that bitch knows exactly where her true loyalties lie." My body is calm and controlled, not allowing a twinge of uncertainty or fear to seep slyly through. This situation can be kept in order. I can handle it. Easily.

"I bet it annoys the hell out of you, doesn't it?" I say, moving closer. I do my best to ignore the violent crashing noise of the trees, as the wind whips through them, sending weak branches falling headlong on the ground.

"The fact that I can be a utter, _utter_, bastard to her and she still, even now, hangs off me like a lovesick teenager. I can do anything I want to her, destroy anything she has and in a heartbeat, she'll forgive me. But you…loving her like you do, so truly, so sickeningly, and yet, having nothing to show for it… How pathetic does that make you? Sniffing like some mongrel around my leftovers!"

A sudden feeling of perverse pleasure fills me. It's been a long time since I've been truly vicious. I'd forgotten how much fun it could be.

The wind is growing fiercer by the second, it howls and screams with anguish. But Blaise seems not to notice. He doesn't explode with emotion, like I expected him to do, like I wanted, waited, wished for him to do. Instead his face remains strangely blank and he begins to take soft footsteps towards Harry.

"Stop!" I shout, my heart struggling to beat in my chest. He continues walking. "Crucio!" a beam of light breaks from my wand and races towards him. He turns towards it, face cocky and calm. With the precision of an arrow, it hits his chest. I wait for the scream.

"Ow," utters a bored voice. With theatrical flourish he wipes off his jacket. "Nice shot," he says with mock-appreciation before walking on, until he stands in front of Harry, peering into his eyes.

"His mother's eyes, that's what they all said…"

My wand shakes slightly in my hand. "Immobulus! Crucio! Stupefy!" one after one they flood from my mouth. I rush forward, confusion overriding fear. Wand still in my hand, I grab him by the shoulders and push him away from Harry.

"What the hell are you?" I demand, my fingers going white with the pressure of holding on.

He doesn't panic or move. He just looks at me. In his eyes I see the promise of what he will do to me. No clever quip will help now.

"Let's just say Professor Slughorn wasn't only interested in me because I have a hot mum…" It takes me a minute to understand what he is saying. In my sixth year certain pupils were selected to join Slughorn's little orgy of fawning. I wasn't one of them.

Leaning in closer, he says with soft satisfaction, "At times like this, being immortal comes in very handy…you can't hurt me Draco…" Taking advantage of my bewilderment, he pushes me off and swaggers easily back to Potter. He bends down slightly and brushes a fingers along Harry's neck.

"Something's missing," he ponders lightly, in a tone full of meaning. "Never mind I'm sure Ginny will be all too happy to return it."

I look at him sharply, my hair falling messily past my eyes and my body feeling as if it has been hollowed out and filled with gnawing nightmares, each one more terrifying than the last.

"What do you want? Money? Is that it?" My voice can't help dropping into a hateful plea.

"I have money," he responds smugly. "From you, I want something much more valuable." He seems taller, stronger, older. An expression part-serious, part-mocking is vividly lit on his exotic face. "I want you to be sorry," he says quietly, looking not at me but at Harry.

"You've destroyed so many lives, impressive amounts in fact. You've told so many lies, twisted so many hearts, far too many, but now you'll finally know what it feels like to lose the one thing that matters the most."

The name slips out before I can even think. "Ginny…"

Blaise smiles. "Who else? To think you've doing all this for that one little girl. Imagine, the great Malfoy, king of Slytherin house, obsessed with a Weasley?" His voice remains scornful but the expressive face cannot hide his genuine need and anger as he asks, "Tell me Draco, why ever did Pansy choose you to be the father of her child? I know the Death Eaters wanted someone of pure blood but surely they could find somebody, _anybody_, better than the likes of you. A child needs someone who can love without expecting something in return, he needs compassion and faith yet all you can offer is cruelty and ignorance. Why choose someone hateful when love, my love, would have been willingly given?"

A sharp talon of laughter slits through the air. Ironically it is my own. So my shameful mistake is what drives Blaise to seek his 'revenge', the disgusting child which I sired is the reason for this…melodrama?

"The paternity of that thing is nothing to fight over, believe me."

I have never seen him. Not once in nearly five years. He was a means to an end. A thing created for darkness. I feel nothing but shame for bringing such a creature into this world.

"He is an innocent!" Blaise shouts. I thought he was angry before, but I was wrong. Every muscle in his body is tensed and his expression is one of pure loathing.

"Never have I seen a child so full of power and potential. You're afraid of him, that's why you kept Harry Potter alive. It wasn't for Ginny, how the hell could it be? You know that he," Blaise places a hand on Harry's frozen shoulder. "Is the only one who can kill your son. Quite a situation you've created for yourself Draco, securing Pansy's help in faking Potter's death has led you, in what can only be a killer case of irony, in keeping him alive. Ginny must be one hell of a good…wife." He finishes, each true word remaining hanging in the night air, for all too revel in their misery.

I stay quiet. I now understand how a rabbit must feel, trapped in the headlights of a car, unable to move, paralysed with the fear that life will soon be stolen away.

"I don't want him dead," Blaise says quietly, looking at Harry with something like fear.

He sighs and then moves slowly away. My wand comes automatically up.

I curse, hex and spell as fast as I can. They hit Blaise in a sparking crescendo of colour.

But nothing happens.

"Where are you going? What do you want?" I yell, voice hoarse and head spinning.

Blaise doesn't turn round, he merely inclines his head slightly, so that a slither of his golden face can be seen.

"Right now," he starts, taking obvious pleasure in his upper hand, "I'm going to see your wife, tell her a few home truths. I'm sure you'll agree that such a woman deserves the truth. And then I'm going to tell her where her beloved Harry is…"

_Not if I can bloody well help it…_

"Oh and before you get any ideas about the icicle over there…don't. If you so much as lay a finger on his head then I'll make sure Ginny and everybody else knows about your offspring and the murders you've committed, can't forget about those, can we? Your own father…very naughty Draco, very naughty indeed."

"I don't respond well to threats!" I attempt to say firmly. My voice shakes.

"Who does? You're just going to have to wait and see if your wife actually loves you or whether you'll forever be the rebound boy. Not that it makes much difference. If I was her, I'd kill you for what you've done."

He continues on until he is almost out of my sight. A muffled noise comes from Harry's direction. The spell is wearing off.

"You'll be sorry!" he promises before apparating away.

I already am.

_Next chapter: Ginny at the Burrow/Blaise tells all/Confrontation/Cold hard truth…_


End file.
